


If I Had Lost You

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU - Fingon survives, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 20:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU) Fingon survives the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, barely. Turgon goes to speak to him for the first time in centuries as he recovers from his wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Had Lost You

Turgon half expected his brother to be asleep when he knocked awkwardly on the door pole of the tent, for Fingon to be resting and recovering from his injuries. He had heard it said in the camp that Fingon’s hurts were grievous, and that the healers had given him a sleeping draft…  _he may still sleep_ … but instead his knock brought a weak, cracked voice from within the tent calling “Come in!” Turgon felt a strange sense of apprehension at that, and then a stab of guilt when he realised he had been half hoping for his brother to still be asleep. Taking a deep, shuddering breath and chewing his lip in a most unkingly fashion, he stepped inside the tent.

The fabric of the walls of the tent was thick, yet it was not dark inside like most of the shelters in their hastily-erected camp. Far from it, for the space was brightly lit with a multitude of lampstones and a few flickering candle flames. There was a large trestle bed in the room, piled high with furs, and in it was…

“Hello Turno” said Fingon, raising himself up to look his brother in the eye. There was a wide swathe of bandages around his head, covering one eye. The other side of his face was purple with bruises, his lip split, and a cut on his eyebrow bore a neat row of stitches. Fingon’s arm was bandaged too, and bound in a sling.

“How… how are you?” Turgon cringed at how inadequate the words sounded, hovering in consternation at the foot of the bed.

Fingon raised an eyebrow, seeming to wince in pain even at the small motion, but his mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile. “Not the best I have ever been, granted.” He looked Turgon in the eye. “You?”

“I am not hurt” said Turgon, for although he had taken an arrow wound under his arm where his armour joined, it was healing well and he saw no sense in troubling Fingon with it. His eyes strayed to the simple golden battle crown, designed to be set over a war helm. Turgon had no such crown for his own helm, for there had never been a need _…_  The crown was badly twisted, and one of its prongs was broken off entirely. Turgon bit his lip, trying not to think about what state the helm itself may have ended in and how narrowly his brother had managed to get away with his life.   
A thick, uncomfortable silence fell between them, as the two brothers each held the other’s gaze, taking in ever detail. Then they were both speaking at once.

“Turno - ”

“Brother - ”

Then Turgon stopped thinking, for Fingon was reaching towards him with his free hand and suddenly he found himself crossing to the bed and embracing him clumsily, trying to avoid Fingon’s bandaged arm, while his brother’s other arm held him close for a long moment. Fingon smelled of blood and sweat and metal, as well as a strange sharp herbal smell that might have come from a poultice. The smells and the roughness of the bandages against the side of Turgon’s face were so real and physical that he wanted to cry with relief, for his brother was bright with life, here in the present. Turgon smiled a pained smile into Fingon’s hair, memories of his childhood crowding in at him. Of Fingon picking him up and setting him back on his feet when he fell, cleaning the dirt from his scraped elbows and knees and wiping away his tears with a thumb. Of sparring with wooden swords in the stone courtyard by the stables in the Treelight.

He drew back quickly, blinking back tears. “Finno…” he mumbled, looking down at his feet. “I should have come to you sooner, I know, I should have helped…”

Fingon’s face clouded. “Then why did you not?”

“I…” he drew in a breath, lifting his head. “I had a duty, I had to keep Gondolin safe. It was the task I had been given. You must understand.” His voice came out a little more pleading than he would have liked.  _The shock of almost losing him_ , he told himself.

“You didn’t keep Irissë safe” said Fingon quietly.

Turgon opened his mouth and closed it again. This was not how he had expected this conversation to go, but, he reflected unhappily, he probably should have. The guilt returned to him, fresh and poisonous even after all these years.

“You weren’t there” Fingon was saying, his face twisting. “You were never there. No communication, not even a letter. I only found out about Atar’s death from Thorondor. You were my heir, Turno, heir to my crown. You could have at least turned up to my coronation.” He gave a bitter little laugh. “Your people were very  _safe_ , I’m sure, behind your walls, while mine fought and died for all our safety.”

For a long moment Turgon didn’t answer, for he knew Fingon was right. “I came when it mattered” he said at last, knowing full well it was a weak defense, hating himself for it. He felt anger flare, at himself and his brother and Morgoth and the world, hot and irrational and painful. “My men probably saved your host from a red slaughter back there.”

“Yes, you surely did” admitted Fingon, wincing and raising his hand to touch his bandages. “Our hosts held together, luckily, but if the balrogs had been allowed to get through…” he pursed his lips. “Anyway. What do you mean to do now?”

“Return” said Turgon slowly. “To Gondolin.”

Fingon’s face was stone. “Your cover is gone, Turno. If you think the eyes of the enemy weren’t watching while your host poured from your gates, then you’re even more naïve than I thought.”

“I know” said Turgon. “But we still have a city, and the eagles to guard us. Our walls and gates are strong, the mountains stronger.”

Fingon gave him a long look. “How are your supplies?” he asked at last. “We have had several failed harvests in recent years in Hithlum. Your situation must be even worse. Did you even think - ”

“We manage” said Turgon testily.

“Do you? Then perhaps you would be so kind as to open trade with the lands of the High King of the Ñoldor…?” There was, to Turgon’s relief, a slight note of humour in Fingon’s voice, the old optimism starting to creep back.

“Perhaps” said Turgon, feeling his own face starting to curve into a smile. “But… are you sure this is the time to talk about this…?”

“Anything to distract me from my broken bones” said Fingon, grimacing. “They itch endlessly as they heal, especially my leg, and I am clumsy as anything as long as my arm is bandaged up. I can’t think how Maitimo manages.” He stopped speaking and his face darkened suddenly. “None of this means that I have forgiven you, Turno” said Fingon shortly.

“ _Forgiven_  – “

“ _Not_  forgiven” corrected Fingon. “And don’t you even dare say it should still be you forgiving me. But…” his eyes softened a little. “When I saw you riding up in the morning light, I had so much hope, and I just  _knew_ , Turno, I knew we could do it. Together.” He paused. “And… I’ve missed you, Turno. I’ve missed you, my brother.”

_Brother. The last either of us have left._

“I’ve missed you too” said Turgon, and he meant every word. Tentatively, he sat down on the edge of the bed and clasped his brother’s unbandaged hand between his own gloved ones.

“Finno” he said. “It’s just us now. If I had lost you…”

“I know, I know” said Fingon, lifting his hand from Turgon’s and placing it on his shoulder. “But you didn’t though.”

“No, I didn’t” said Turgon. “It’s like you said. The day may yet come again.”

Fingon grinned cheerfully, although there was the ghost of pain there too, Turgon saw. “Perhaps, brother. Perhaps.”


End file.
